August is the season where I serve supper and my husband weeps.

I’m not trying to make him cry. I’m actually being a conscientious, upright, in-tune-with-mother-earth-type person. In other words, I forage in the garden for what’s ripe and then slap it on the table. One night there was a delightful bulgur salad along with corn on the cob. The next night I served a mountain of corn on the cob and leftover peas.

The food was delicious—people pay big bucks for fresh veggies, you know—but throughout the meal my husband wore an aggrieved expression. Sure enough, a couple hours later I found him with his head in the fridge, rooting around for something to more to eat.

Me: You hungry?

Him: I need food, Jennifer. Food! I already made three eggs and I’m still famished. I! Am! Hungry!

And then he whimpered.

So the next day I went shopping for food. I bought snacks and apples and ham. I made big, husband-pleasing plans for pizza and pastas and taco salad. (The tomato sandwiches, pesto with candied cherry tomatoes, and roasted beets I’ll slip in around the edges.)

In the meantime, the leftover bulgur salad is all mine. I’ve been eating great mounds of it for my lunches. It makes me feel virtuous, energetic, and only a wee bit resentful that my husband isn’t as nuts about it as I am. Because it is the perfect lunch salad.

Also, regarding this food preference difference: is there actually a gender-based divide in taste preferences?  Is there truth to the stereotype that (more) men like wings, burgers, and pizza and (more) women like mushrooms, blue cheese, and kale? Is it sexist to even raise such a question?

Kale Tabbouleh with Tomatoes and Cucumbers
Adapted from Aimee of Simple Bites

for the salad:
1 cup bulgur
8-10 leaves of kale
1½  – 2 cups chopped tomatoes
2 medium cucumbers, peeled and chopped
1/4 cup minced onion
½ cup fresh parsley, chopped
½ cup mint leaves, chopped

for the dressing
2 tablespoons olive oil
1/4 cup fresh lemon juice
½ teaspoon balsamic vinegar
½ teaspoon salt
freshly ground black pepper

Put the bulgur in a bowl and cover with two cups of boiling water. Let sit until the bulgur is soft and the water is absorbed. (If there is any extra water, drain it off.)

Whisk the dressing ingredients together in a small bowl. Set aside.

Wash the kale, remove the tough stem, and mince the leaves. Drizzle the leaves with 1 tablespoon of the dressing. Using your hands, massage the dressing into the kale leaves until they are glossy and soft.

Add the kale, tomatoes, cucumber, onion, mint, and parsley to the bulgur. Toss with the rest of the dressing. Serve at room temperature.

Leftovers can be refrigerated for several days. They make perfect lunches (for the non meat-eaters among us).

This same time, years previous: the quotidian (8.19.13), basic fruit crisp, and thoughts on nursing.

This same time, years previous: easy French bread, from market to table, starfruit smoothie, summer visitor, the beach, garlicky spaghetti sauce, around the internets, peach cornmeal cobbler and fresh peach ice cream, drilling for sauce, barley and beans with sausage and red wine, peach tart, and tomato and red wine sauce.

I find myself in a weird place: rather busy—sometimes annoyingly so—and yet on the cusp of a lull. I can feel it coming, the slipping into cozy comfort, the sweet routines, the ordinary ebbs and flows, and while I love it, I also have an underlying need for more, more, more. A new project, maybe. Something to challenge my mind. It’s like a craving, this pulsating need to produce, stretch, experience, delight, thrill.

A dozen-plus years ago, I invited some high school girls to come hang out in my house to talk. Actually, I wrote about this in my (unfinished) book, so here. No need to write the same thing twice…

And then there are my high-schoolers.  The idea simmered on my back burner for quite a while before I sent out invitations to the girls at church to come to my house to talk.  I promised I would answer any questions they had.  I was open to all topics:  religion, family, eating disorders, and the hottest of all concerns, sex.  The girls started flocking to my house every other Wednesday night.  Very soon they dubbed themselves the Milkmaids because they were drinking large quantities of milk with my homemade snacks. 


The nights everybody descends on our house for our loud and hairy gabfests, I dim the lights and pile pillows around, and as the lone semi-mature adult I hear out their ecstasies and sorrows.   A single votive candle is my one attempt at order; the rule (quite loosely followed) being that only the person holding the candle may speak.  I throw out a question or an idea and they respond to it, taking however much time they need, passing the candle when they’re finished.  Much of the time is spent laughing hysterically, but it’s a rare evening that no one weeps.

I share this now because nearly a decade later, this group has reformed. It’s kind of funny how it started. A few weeks back, several of the girls came over to see the puppies. We sat in the yard drinking mint tea and ended up talking for three hours. In passing, I mentioned how it’s amazing that so many of the original Milkmaids are living in the Valley after all these years, and one of the girls said, “Yeah, we should do Milkmaids again.”

I laughed off her suggestion—that era is long gone—but that night in the shower I did a double take. Milkmaids again? Could that even possibly work? After a bunch of pondering and some consultations with my husband, I sent out an invite. A couple weeks later, Milkmaids 2.0 (until we come up with a better name) was in session.

In some ways, the group is different. We drink wine instead of milk. They have husbands, babies, and jobs instead of sports, homework, and youth group. With ten more years of experience under their belts, there is greater depth to their insights. The conversation is richer.

But in many ways the group is exactly the same. They all look just like they did ten years ago (they say I do, too—aren’t they sweet?). Tears and laughter bubble over willy-nilly. The nights run late. And I still open each gathering with a guiding thought.

The last time we met, I opened with one of the teacher’s precepts from Wonder: It is better to know some of the questions than all of the answers (James Thurber). After the candle had made its way around the circle, they asked me what my questions were. I confessed I hadn’t given it any thought and proceeded to bumble around for a bit before mercifully falling silent.

Since that night, I’ve been mulling over that precept. I think I’ve finally come up with my question:

How do I know when to practice contentment and when to push myself beyond my comfort zone? And what if contentment is beyond my comfort zone (oh no!)?

Maybe my constant desire for More is an addiction, a distraction technique, a hindrance to true joy. But maybe this aching itch means that there is more of me to be uncovered. Maybe it is My True Potential yanking at its collar, begging to be unleashed?

Discovery is what I want. Sometimes I dream about being discovered, but I think that would be, ultimately, unsatisfying. What I really want, I think, is to discover. To discover a good recipe, a new insight, a skill, a friendship, myself.

Most times, I feel like a walking cliche. Take it one day at a time! Know thyself! To every season there is a purpose! Think of others first! Love wins! Dare to dream! 

Perhaps it’s silly, this constant turmoil. But hey, it is what it is.

Do I practice contentment or do I push?
Do I do both?
And how?

This same time, years previous: not your typical back-to-school post, a piece of heaven, grilled trout with bacon, lately, our life, kill a groundhog and put it in a quiche, and fresh mozzarella.